


Louder than Words

by sheesusnat



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheesusnat/pseuds/sheesusnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Toews observes the Team Canada dressing room very closely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Louder than Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antumbral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/gifts).



There are a lot of things said in the Team Canada dressing room. Being in Vancouver, surrounded by red jerseys and flags and signs, it is never far from their minds that they are on home soil, and that the entire country is counting on them. There are reminders that it is _their_ game, Canada's game, and that this is a golden opportunity that none of the players is likely to see again in his lifetime. They speak about pride, determination, about energy and effort and refusing to back down. There is colorful language coming from every corner of the room between periods, before and after practices. Everyone knows how important this tournament is for them, their families, their nation.

For every word that's spoken, repeated, hammered deep into their hearts and minds each day of the Olympics, there are just as many things left unsaid. They don't speak of what might happen if they win--or worse yet, if they do _not_ win. They don't speak of their NHL teams or rivalries, for those are for another time.

And as practiced, politically correct Canadians, they never speak a single word of controversy to the media. Regardless of frustration in the room after a close game against the Swiss, after a loss to the United States, regardless of any questions about conflicts, about adversity, they give the same united front for the media because that is what Canadians do, that is how Canadians act.

Jonathan grew up believing that; he idolized players like Steve Yzerman, Joe Sakic--the ultimate captains, leading by example, not needing fancy words or egotistical predictions to support their teams. As he developed, he had modeled himself after those players, wanting to emulate the same style, both on and off the ice.

Some days, though, it was harder than others to keep his cool. The deafening echo of soft voices inside Team Canada's dressing room after losing to the American team was one of those times. He was fortunate in a game like this--everyone wanted to hear what Marty had to say, what Neids thought, if Sid was worried. No one really cared about Jonny, and he was glad to have it that way. He wasn't up to dealing with the media. Not tonight. Not after that loss.

He didn't hurry from the room, he never did. Regardless of outcomes, he liked to soak up the atmosphere. This could well be his one and only chance to be inside a Canadian Olympic locker room, and he was going to take full advantage of the opportunity. He made sure to take time to talk with Stevie, to listen to his teammates, to observe how they all handled themselves.

While Jonny himself wasn't always able to keep his emotions in check--even _he_ noticed the knot in his brows after the USA game ended--he was able to look across the room and see others who were able to do just that. Not the least of which was the one surrounded by the most microphones, the most lights, the most cameras.

Sidney's forehead was uncreased, unlike Jonny's tense eyebrows. His lips were relaxed, not drawn into a frown. His eyes were clear and determined. There wasn't a sign of weakness to be seen, and Jonathan was intrigued. How could anyone--especially someone so near him in age and experience--handle the pressure with such ease?

He watched Sidney for far too long, the media finding their way out of the room one-by-one, each going off to write their story, to manipulate the quotes however they felt necessary. Long after the room was silent, the bright camera lights gone, Jonny remained, waiting to see just how long Sidney stayed after the game was over.

About ninety minutes after the final horn had sounded, Sidney finally tightened his tie and stood to leave. "Gonna stay here all night, Tazer?"

Jonny hadn't quite realized Sidney noticed he was there. Embarrassed, he jumped up and let out a weak laugh. "Sorry...I got off into my own little world there."

Sid's smile was half-hearted, but there nonetheless. "I understand that. Sometimes it's nice to just shut everything else out."

Jonny walked next to him toward the door, stepping out of the way so Sidney could go first. He wasn't sure how much Sidney wanted to talk now--he'd spent at least a half hour talking to reporters. He decided not to push it, it had been a rough night for all of them, and he didn't want to add any unnecessary stress.

They managed to slip out of GM Place, or, rather, Canada Hockey Place (Jonathan would never remember to say that if someone asked) without too much recognition, and a Team Canadaissued vehicle was there to take them back to the Olympic Village. The rest of the team was gone, off to late dinner with girlfriends or wives, parents or friends, so it was only Jonny and Sidney in the car.

It was a very quiet ride, with Sid staring out of one window, and Jonny splitting time between watching the road and watching Sidney. Now it was Sidney who was off in his own world, deep in his own mind, and Jonathan didn't dare break into the silence.

"I'm just heading back to the room," Sidney said finally, as the car neared the athlete's village. "I don't know if you wanted to do anything else, you can have the driver stop somewhere."

Jonny shook his head and shrugged a shoulder. "I'm pretty tired, I'm not sure I want to venture out anywhere tonight." _Especially after that game_ was implied, but not spoken, and Sidney nodded his acknowledgment, clearly not feeling the need to speak more than necessary.

The rest of the drive was much like the beginning, only the sound of tires on asphalt, muted hum of the engine, and a few deep breaths that echoed inside the sedan. Jonny wasn't sure if Sidney felt it, but the quiet was oppressive, almost physically restrictive it was so overpowering. But maybe that was just because Jonathan wanted so badly to say something. Anything.

They climbed out of the car upon reaching the Team Canada complex and this time Sidney followed Jonathan through the door and to the elevator. They were on the same floor--sharing the same apartment, but not the same room--so no words were needed when hitting buttons. He didn't _have_ to ask anything, but he still _wanted_ to ask, wanted anything to break through the silence. The need to _talk_ was damn near stifling Jon now, his throat aching and his shoulders nearly itching with anticipation.

He had hoped someone would join them on the lift up to the eighth floor, but there was no such luck, and Jonathan stood tersely next to Sidney, staring straight ahead while Sidney watched the lights blinking at each level.

"How do you handle it?" Jonathan finally asked, as the circle labeled "7" lit. He couldn't take the silence any longer.

Sidney didn't answer right away, and Jon thought briefly about elbowing him as hard as possible. "It's part of the job," was the reply when it came, as if it were just that simple, and with that, Sid stepped off of the elevator and walked toward their apartment.

Jonny followed behind, staring at the back of Sidney's head, simultaneously frustrated at the nearly script-perfect answer and also regretful for even asking the question. He was sure it was something Sidney had been asked a million times before, probably half of those in the last week alone.

The door was already open when Jonny got there, Sidney holding it ajar with one hand while tugging his tie loose with the other. The common room was dark, proof positive that no one else was there--the other guys sharing the apartment tended to leave everything on, from the TV to the ceiling fans to the lights in the bathroom.

Eager to end the prolonged awkward moment that had seemed to last from the minute they left the locker room, Jonathan went directly into his room to change out of his suit. He was wearing just flannel pants, hanging up his dress shirt, when Sidney decided to speak up again.

"It's a pain in the ass sometimes," he said, leaning in the doorway, dressed down now to sweatpants and a well-worn gray t-shirt. "It's the same ten questions every day, from the same idiot media blowhards. Here it's just the same ten questions, in two or three or four languages, from _new_ media blowhards."

Jon was surprised at the answer and turned to face him. "But you never show that it's irritating you."

Sid shrugged his shoulder and met Jon's eyes. "You learn to just shut down. The answers are easy, after a year or two you can pretty much do the interview in your sleep. If you stray from the PC bullshit, someone is going to take it out of context. It's going to end up on some opposing locker room wall, and you're going to have to answer even more stupid questions for it." He took a breath and smirked slightly. "It's easier to just tell them all the cliché crap and be done with it."

Jonny hadn't had much chance to really talk to Sid during these games, outside of the actual strategies on the ice, and it was nice to see something _real_. "I don't get that as bad in Chicago, Kaner's there, and Duncs and Seabs, Sharpy loves talking to the media...I'm not the only one. But you pretty much are over there, eh?"

Sidney stepped into the cramped bedroom and sat on Jon's unmade bed. "Geno still doesn't like to do interviews in English. The other guys step up, but the press guys want to talk to me, and if I _don't_ do it, it causes all kinds of other problems. So I just do it and try to get it over with as quickly as possible."

"What about here? You're as calm as ever, but I know _I'm_ feeling the pressure, I can only imagine what you're going through."

Sidney's lips curled up just slightly at that, and Jonny moved to sit cross-legged on the bed. "It's what they expect. They want me to be the name, the face, the one who makes it all _go_. If I step down from that, they start putting more pressure on you guys. I guess I always figure that part of leading is being the one to take all the shots. If it goes well, I get more credit than I deserve. It's only fair if I take more of the criticism too."

Jonathan laughed softly and shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I forget you're still my age. You're a freak of nature, you know that?"

Sidney rolled his eyes and turned to face Jon more squarely. "Are you fucking kidding me? I've seen you during games here, if you're any more intense your skull is gonna collapse."

Jon was suddenly uncomfortable, knowing Sid had observed him. It was hypocritical, after spending so long watching him with the press, but he had figured he was flying under the radar for everyone in this tournament, teammates included. "I just really want to win," Jon said, by way of explanation, and even to his own ears, it was a cop-out.

"Everyone here wants to win, Tazer. You've got a little more than that going on."

Jonny was used to people talking about his demeanor, from the media giving him more credit than he expected or deserved, to the mocking he regularly got from his teammates. But this was different; coming from someone like Sidney, it was a huge compliment. He wasn't sure how to react, he simply shrugged it off while tracing the folds of the sheet beneath him.

"I'm really glad you're here, Jonny. Don't underestimate what you've done for this team," Sidney said, capturing his attention. When he looked up, Sidney continued. "You have nothing to regret from tonight, you had a hell of a game. Don't think people don't notice."

Jonny suddenly wished he had stoic, unreadable Sidney from the locker room facing him. This Sidney was watching him, scrutinizing him, brown (or were they green? Jonny couldn't tell) eyes catching each of his fidgeting movements. He wished he'd put a shirt on. This was too open, too revealed. For as much as he'd wanted Sidney to open up to him, to share his secrets, he was just as terrified to do the same.

"Jon, relax," Sidney said, and while Jonny wanted to comply, Sid laid a hand on his arm at the same time. "I'll stop complimenting you, I know it's weird. I get the same way."

Jonathan swallowed hard and met Sidney's eyes, forcing a laugh. "Yeah, I just get weird about that...if I was all that great, we would've won, you know?"

Sidney grimaced, but chuckled anyway. "I'm starting to figure out why people compare the two of us." His hand remained on Jonathan, all too warm for Jon's liking, callused fingertips rough against the soft skin inside his forearm. "I can deal with that comparison."

The room went silent again, quieter than even the car on the way back from the arena had been, but it was different this time. It was still stifling, suffocating tension, but it was less disappointment and more anticipation. Now it was the whirr of the fan over their heads, the soft tick of the clock next to the bed, and still the sound of slow, deep breaths. Jonny noted with an inaudible groan that his breathing was considerably quicker, considerably less even than Sidney's.

Jonny was finally, embarrassingly, getting up the nerve to speak when Sidney surprised him again. The hand on his arm tightened, and Sidney was then on his knees, pushing Jonathan back, leaning over him. Jonathan might've been taller, but Sidney was more solid, stockier, and was easily able to take control.

Sidney's lips on his proved to be much softer than the grip on his arm. Jonny gasped in surprise, a soft little gasp of air that tasted a little like the orange Gatorade Sidney had been drinking on the drive over. After the first shock had settled under the goosebumps on his skin, Jonny let instinct take over. He slid a hand into the thick, dark hair at the back of Sidney's head and kissed back, capturing one full lip between his own and sucking, biting down to make _Sidney_ gasp, wanting to have at least one small show of power, even if Sidney was the one taking over.

The bite pulled a deep rumble from Sidney's chest, and the roughened fingertips that had been on Jonny's arm were now sliding over his waist, his hip, all bare skin, much softer than the grit of Sidney's hands, and he fought back a shudder from the sensation. Jon kept one hand tight in Sid's hair, but he still managed to tug at his shirt, the cotton soft and pliant from wear, easily twisting under his grip. He didn't want to break the kiss, but he had to get the damn thing out of the way, so he yanked it up with both hands, as quickly as possible. It caught on Sidney's elbow, his wrist, and while he tried to yank it free, Jonny wrestled to take some of the upper hand, threading both hands into Sidney's hair and pulling him down into a rougher, more desperate kiss, his teeth closing down on Sid's tongue.

Finally Sidney's shirt was gone, and he shifted just a bit, and Jonny damn near moaned from the sudden friction. Sid was laying on top of him, leaving them tangled together, each with one thigh caught between the other's legs. The new position left no mystery that Sidney was turned on, hard against Jonny's hip, just as worked up as Jonathan himself.

Jon let his hands roam, content for the moment to let Sidney have control. He rubbed all over his back, broader than his own, muscles taut and corded from neck, down Sidney's spine, along his shoulderblades and down to his waist. While Jonny wanted to explore, Sidney kept his grip on Jonny's thighs. His hips were working slow, forward and back, rolling the same way over and over, the motion unmistakable. The friction of flannel against his cock, Sidney's firm pelvis just on the other side of too damn much fabric, was driving Jonny gradually insane.

Jonathan pulled his leg higher, hooking it up on Sidney's hip to shift the angle. The move left Sidney grinding his cock against the spot where Jon's thigh met his groin, fully hard and, despite their still being clothed, so close to being inside Jonathan that he almost moaned with disappointment.

Sidney kept up the same pressure, the same rhythm, up and back, forward and away, his hips working the fabric against Jonny's hypersensitive skin, drawing out a soft moan that Jon couldn't quite choke back, arching his back up off of the bed and letting his head drop to the pillow, his eyelids slipping shut. Sidney's lips dropped to his throat then, kissing here and biting there, sucking at the skin just above the divot of Jonny's collarbone, wringing more gasps from his chest.

Sidney's teeth dug into the skin of Jon's shoulder, and just as he did, he shifted his weight and their bodies moved and caught Jonny's cock firmly between his own pelvis and Sidney's, tighter and hotter and more intense than Jonny could take, and without much warning, he thrust his hips up against Sidney and shuddered out a growl as he came, his nails raking dark red lines down Sidney's back.

_Jesus_, Jonny thought he heard Sidney say, but he couldn't be sure, the white and red and _light_ behind his eyes and the rush of blood in his ears making it too much to focus completely on anything. He caught a glimpse of Sidney above him, hair dampened, one curl stuck to his forehead, his lips parted on a quiet grunt as he worked his hips faster, faster still, the same steady rhythm as before, just this side of fucking.

Sidney finally ground his full weight against Jonathan, his back arching up and his nails biting into the skin of Jon's hips, and while he couldn't feel the come, couldn't see it, he knew it'd happened just watching Sidney. Once his body stopped quaking, Sid slumped against Jonny, his breath coming in quick, harsh gasps, the loudest sound in the room, up against Jon's softer, slower breathing.

"Jesus," Jonny said this time, his hands lingering over Sidney's back, rubbing slow circles over sweat-slick, goosebumped skin.

They didn't speak for a long while after that; Sidney kept his face anchored in the crook of Jonathan's neck while his breathing slowed. Jonny just listened, absorbed the moment. He traced a finger over Sidney's back, along his spine, fingertip tracing each vertebra, the clock ticking away and punctuating each bump beneath Sidney's skin. The fan fluttered the air around them, almost too chilled now that the frenzy had eased.

Slowly, the room went from hazy shades of gray and blue to stark black and white, and it dawned on Jonny what just happened. As he tried to grasp the depth and breadth of it, Sidney started to move. He shifted from his spot atop Jonathan, and Jonny wanted to speak up, to apologize, to thank him; he didn't know what he wanted to say.

Sidney merely settled down next to him and caught Jonny's gaze. He didn't bother to speak a word, only smiled. Just a soft smile, a lazy, sated grin, and then he winked, lifting his hand to place a fingertip over his mouth. _Shh_, his lips said, though no noise came out.

Sometimes, Jonny decided, you didn't really need to say anything at all.


End file.
